Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  "Oh, no you don't!" He sidestepped quickly, blocking her path. "Back where you came from!" He pointed imperiously.

  Her face was blotched and red. "Leave me alone!"

  She tried to bolt. He cut her off neatly and resisted the urge to seize her wrists. The last thing he wanted her to do was scream. But when she shoved him hard enough to stagger him off balance, he reacted before his brain could catch up-which wasn't very difficult in his current state of mind. Kit snatched her off balance, swearing under his breath, and forcibly pulled her toward the back of the library.

  Predictably, she resisted.

  Kit swung her around hard enough to jounce her teeth together. "Do you really want me to turn you over Grandpa's knee, little girl?"

  Margo worked her mouth like a drowning fish. "You, you wouldn't-" She halted mid-protest. "You would."

  For a moment, they stalemated in the center of La-La Land's library. Then she wrenched free of his grip, with an against-the-thumb movement that spoke of some martial arts training, but she didn't try to leave. She stood glaring at him, chest heaving against the plunging neckline of her dress in a fashion that made him want to throw a flour sack over her torso. Then she broke and fled toward the language lab. Kit drew a deep, shaky breath.

  Dear God . .

  He needed time to absorb this, time to figure out when and how ...

  Sarah, why didn't you ever tell me?

  The hurt in his chest made his whole soul ache.

  Kit lifted a shaking hand to his eyes. Gotta think. Sarah and I broke up in ...If she was pregnant then, and had a child before ...Sarah's child would've had to be about seventeen when Margo was..."Dear God. She could be."

  Teenage pregnancies had very nearly become the rule, rather than the exception, during the years Margo's mother would have been a teenager. Margo had reminded Kit all along of someone. Now he knew. She didn't look much like Sarah, but that temper, not to mention the pride ...even the determination to get what she wanted and everything be damned that stood in her way. Margo was Sarah van Wyyck all over again.

  He didn't know whether to laugh or cry or swear aloud.

  Meanwhile, his granddaughter had to be faced.

  "Christ, and she's still set on being a time scout."

  His viscera did another swan dive into a bottomless chasm. l can't let her do this .... Hard on the heels of that thought came another. And just how do you propose to stop her?

  The whole library wavered in his vision for a moment as he superimposed Margo's face over some of the sights that still gave him nightmares. She doesn't understand... thinks it's high adventure and she'll live forever ...and I can't even insist on partnering her, can't even go along and watch her back ....

  If Kit stepped through another unknown gate, odds were extremely high the attempt would kill him.

  "What am I going to do? She wants this..." And was it any wonder? What must the kid have grown up thinking and dreaming every time she heard about her famous granddaddy?

  "Dammit, Kit, pull it together: ..."

  Walking back into the language lab was possibly the hardest thing Kit had ever done.

  Margo had pulled the chair into the far corner; but she wasn't sitting in it. She'd taken up a stance behind it, gripping the back as though he were a savage lion in need of taming. He recalled some of the ugly things he'd said to her and swallowed. Damn ...Kit closed the door softly and faced her. Tear streaks ran down her face in jagged paths. But her chin was still up, still defiant, despite visible fear in her eyes.

  "I'm not an ogre," Kit muttered. "'You can put down the chair."

  Very slowly, Margo let go her death grip. The front legs settled with a quiet thump. She swallowed a couple of times. "I didn't mean-I mean, I didn't plan to-"

  "It's said," Kit interrupted brusquely. "And yes, you do come by it honestly."

  For some reason, that brought a fresh flood of tears. Kit felt as though he'd just hit her and couldn't for the life of him figure out how to repair the damage. The sense of helplessness which paralyzed him reminded Kit unpleasantly of the times Sarah had dissolved into tears.

  "I-Skeeter, he-and you-" Margo's voice control was gone.

  Kit finally thought to hunt for a handkerchief and found a rumpled one in a back pocket. "Here."

  She all but snatched it out of his hand, then turned her back and struggled visibly to regain the shreds of her dignity. Kit waited quietly, aware that a woman's pride was a far more serious matter than a man's and men had been known to do murder when theirs was injured. She hiccoughed a few times and blotted her face, then blew her nose.

  "Sorry," she muttered. "I ruined Skeeter's hanky, too."

  Kit winced. He decided he did not want to know how Skeeter Jackson had comforted his granddaughter. If he'd hurt her ...I'll toss him through the next unstable gate that opens. She finally faced him, a watery-eyed waif in a bedraggled strumpet's gown. No wonder she paid somebody to change the name on her ID card to "Smith." Didn't want anyone to know who she really was, desperate to do this on her own merits ...

  Kit knew only too well how that felt. He cleared his throat, more to gain time than anything. "You're dead set on this time-scouting business."

  She swallowed. Her eyes, red and angry as bee stings, still brimmed with unshed tears. "I've wanted it all my life."

  Once again he cleared his throat. "Things as they are, I can't say I blame you ...." Then he eyed her critically, studying her for the first time as a potential scout. He shook his head over the visible cleavage. "Best thing to do would be disguise you as a boy, but you're not really built for it."

  Her eyes widened. "You mean-" Then, hastily, "It's not real. I mean, they're real, but I'm wearing stays. A corset. Skeeter bought them for me at an outfitter's. They really make me look ...well, more voluptuous." Kit, thoroughly familiar with the bio-mechanical effect of a woman's corset stays, flushed. I'm talking to my granddaughter about the size of her breasts ....

  Margo was still talking as fast as possible. "I could wear baggy shirts, you know, to hide things, and my hips aren't really that wide, it's just I have a narrow waist ....

  Kit shook his head. The kid really did want this. God help us both ....

  Her face fell. He realized she must have misinterpreted that head shake. Kit sighed. "All right, Margo. I'll do it. But under conditions–

  Really?" Her voice squealed into the soprano register. Her bedraggled face lit up like Christmas.

  "Under conditions!" Kit repeated sharply. She gulped and heard him out. "First, I decide when–or if – you're ready Second, you agree to do everything I tell you, exactly as I tell you. Understand? And you don't do anything I don't specifically tell you to do. If, after we're into training, I decide you don't have what it takes, you agree to switch to something else. Time guiding, maybe.

  There's a world of difference between the two professions. Guiding's fun. Sometimes dangerous, but mostly not. Scouting's deadly. If you thought convincing me to train you was hard, you don't even know the meaning yet. By the time I've put you through training, you will. Any time you want to quit, holler."

  "I won't quit."

  Kit managed a wan smile. "I expected you'd say that: But I mean it. Remember the bourbon. Knowing when to quit can be just as important as fighting for what you want."

  A flush of pink crept into her cheeks. She rubbed her nose with the back of one hand and sniffed hugely. "Okay."

  "Any questions?"

  She shook her head.

  "Okay " He had about a million of his own-but now wasn't the right time to broach them. He took a deep breath and struggled against the cold in the pit of his belly. "Let's get started."

  Chapter Six

  A RATTLE OF glassware punctuated the low buzz of voices like frogsong through the hum of mosquitoes. Familiar and comforting, the sounds rose in a welcoming chorus from the Down Time's open doorway Kit ushered Margo in first, aware that speculative glances were levied in their direction. Several glances lingered, so
me on Margo, some on the scouting equipment he conspicuously carried in the trademark leather satchel he'd been the first to construct. Dirt-stained and battered, it nevertheless remained sturdy and functional. At one time, Kit wouldn't have felt fully dressed without it.

  Behind the bar, a young woman with a long-boned face the British royals would've been proud to claim wiped up a spill and nodded. "Evenin', luv."

  "Hello, Molly. Any seats left?"

  In answer, she jerked her head toward a small table at the side of the room, missing all but two of its chairs. The Down Time was jam-packed, of course. Too much to ask for a quiet night, tonight of all nights. Kit recognized nearly everyone. Laughter punctuated a dozen conversations. "Thanks, Molly. How about a couple of ice waters?"

  Mollys long, clear-eyed gaze followed Margo as she made her way toward the indicated table, but the barmaid withheld comment, as she generally did. She filled a couple of glasses with ice cubes and water and handed them over. "Anythin' else?"

  Kit shook his head. "No, not just now. Maybe later."

  "Luv..."

  Kit paused mid-step, causing the ice cubes to clink faintly. The chill of condensate sank into his hands, echoing the coldness which still gripped the rest of him. "Yeah?"

  Molly's brow had furrowed the tiniest bit, betraying intense worry. "Keep 'em open, Kit. She's a sharper, she is."

  Kit glanced over to the table. Margo had taken up residence in the outer chair, which would leave Kit with his back against the wall. Margo's cheeks were visibly flushed despite the low-light conditions which prevailed this time of night in the Down Time. She was all but quivering with excitement.

  "I suspect she's had reason," Kit said quietly. "I'm just trying to keep her alive."

  Molly nodded. "'at's awright, but keep 'em open, luv. Tike care she don't steal yer bees an' 'oney while yer's back's turned."

  Her concern that he might lose money to Margo surprised Kit and touched him. "I'll do that."

  She nodded briskly and turned to cater to another customer's needs. Kit eased his way between tables, greeting friends as he went and parrying curious questions with a smile and offhand jokes. Margo watched the ritual with wide eyes. He finally set the water glasses down and took the other chair. Margo sipped-then shot him a startled glance.

  "Water? I'm not a baby!"

  "You're drinking what I am. Pay attention."

  Kit didn't think he'd ever seen a more skillful disgruntled female flounce–stationary, no less, in a straight-backed bar chair-but she didn't argue. "I'm listening."

  Given the rapt attention on her face, she was, too. "All right, Margo. Phase One: Equipment Lecture."

  Kit rummaged in the satchel for his personal log and ATLS. Margo would need her own set. Kit made a quick note on his mental to-do list, then set both items out for inspection. "These two pieces of hardware are your lifeline."

  Margo peered at them without offering to touch. "What are they? I read that scouts used microcomputers and some gizmo to determine absolute time and Skee– mean," she flushed, "I was saving money from my job to buy whatever I'd need. Is that what these are?"

  "Yes." Kit picked up the personal log. A compact unit, smaller than an average letter-sized sheet of paper, it weighed more than it looked. "This is a time scout's personal log." He opened the case, pressed a latch, and lifted the tiny screen, revealing a keypad and the mesh grid of a microphone. "The casing is waterproof, shockproof, just about everything we can protect it from, except maybe immersion in strong acid or molten metal or molten rock. It can be used in either voice or key mode. Scanners and digitizing micro-cameras can be attached The personal log operates on a solar-powered system backed up with batteries that last about twenty-four hours between charges. It writes automatically to a micro-layer space-grown crystal matrix for storage, so there's no chance of losing data even if you do experience catastrophic power failure. They're expensive, but you don't set foot through a gate without one."

  "So, they're like a trip diary, for recording notes and stuff?"

  Kit shook his head. "Much more important and much more detailed. This," he tapped his log, "is quite literally what keeps me from killing myself."

  A tiny vertical line appeared between Margo's brows. The uncertainty in her eyes mirrored a chain of thought that was almost comical.

  "No," Kit smiled, "I'm not suicidal. Although a large percentage of the population would argue any time scout is. How much reading have you done? Do you know what Shadowing is?"

  Margo hesitated, clearly caught between answers.

  "Don't be embarrassed to say no."

  "Well, no. I mean, I know there's something weird about the gates and time scouts have to retire early because you can't ever be in the same time twice, but I never read the word `shadowing' or heard it used."

  As though to underscore her admission, a shadow falling across the table interrupted them. Kit glanced up-and held back a groan. Malcolm Moore had pulled up a chair. "Mind if I join you? This looks interesting." He glanced from the scouting equipment to Kit to Margo and back to Kit, then grinned expectantly.

  Kit considered telling him to buzz off, then thought better. Malcolm's assistance might actually be useful. He'd scouted a couple of times and had given it up for guiding.

  "Sure. Park it."

  Malcolm turned the chair around and sat down. "Hello, Margo. You look, um ..."

  "Ridiculous," Kit said dryly.

  Margo flushed. "I didn't have time to change." She snatched the hat into her lap and ruffled her short hair. Kit winced at the movement of cleavage – and at Malcolm's interested attention.

  "Malcolm," he said under his breath, "as you are a friend, don't do that again."

  Malcolm's brows soared. "Good Lord, Kit, what's eating you? Can't a man even pay a lady the compliment of noticing?"

  "No."

  Margo just put her hands over her face.

  "She's, uh ..." Oh, hell.... "She's my grandkid."

  Malcolm rocked back on his chair and stared. "Margo's your granddaughter?"

  Conversation cut short throughout the bar. Kit felt the flush start in his neck and work its way up into his hairline. Margo risked a peek, then groaned and hid her face again.

  "Well, I'll be... suckered." Malcolm Moore was grinning like the proverbial village idiot "Miss Margo, you can't imagine what a wonderful surprise this is."

  The buzz of conversation picked up again, livelier than ever.

  "I, uh," Margo floundered for words. She shot a stricken glance at Kit, then settled for a faint, "Thanks."

  Kit glowered at Malcolm. "What I'm trying to do, here, is keep her alive. She wants to scout."

  Malcolm's grin widened, which Kit would've bet was physically impossible. "Really? What was it you said the other day

  "Never mind what I said the other day. I'm training her. Maybe. If-" he turned a severe glare on Margo "-she listens and learns."

  "I'm listening ! So show me, already"

  "Good." Kit drew a breath and downed half his water in one gulp, wishing it were something stronger. "Malcolm, here, has scouted a couple of times."

  Malcolm nodded "Exactly twice. Then I switched to guiding."

  Margo rested her chin on her hands. "Why?"

  Malcolm chuckled. "Because I wanted to live to see thirty."

  "Why does everyone keep saying scouting's so dangerous?"

  Malcolm lanced over. Kit just shrugged, leaving

  Malcolm on lanced own-and Kit was sure any answer the guide provided would be more than effective.

  "Well," Malcolm said quietly, "because it is. My first time out, I beat the witch finders to the gate by about four minutes. One of them actually got through on sheer momentum and had to be tossed back through just as the gate was closing. If the gate hadn't opened up, I'd have ...Well, never mind. The second time, I missed

  Shadowing myself by about half an hour. Promised myself I'd never set foot through an unknown gate again."

  Then he chuckled and rub
bed the back of his neck. "Well, I did risk it just once more, when we rescued the folks who fell through that unstable gate in the floor, but I didn't stop to think, then, I just jumped. I was lucky. Someone, thank God, had their log and ATLS with them, so at least I have a record of which gates we stumbled through trying to get home again."

  "Okay, so it's dangerous. What's this Shadowing stuff all about, exactly?"

  Kit tapped the personal log absently with one fingernail. "It means you can't cross your own shadow. Not and survive. If you step through a gate into, say, Rome on A.D. 100, March twenty-fourth, 2:00 P.m. sun time, you log into this machine exactly when and where you are. How you determine when and where you are, I'll explain in a minute. The point is, you note down exactly when you arrived, where you arrived, how long you stayed, and when you left. You keep track of when and where you've been. Okay, let's say somebody else pushes a gate into Meso-America, A.D. 100, March twenty-third. If you step through that gate, and stay past March twenty-fourth 2:00 P.m. Italian time, one of you disappears. The current you. The Roman you is alive in the past, but the real-time you just died. You cannot cross your own shadow. Paradox doesn't happen, because you vanish completely, forever."

  Margo shrugged. "Sounds easy enough to avoid. You just don't try to watch Julius Caesar murdered twice."

  Malcolm said, "You couldn't do that, anyway. The two ends of the time strings that form gates are connected. They move at the same pace. If a week goes by here, a week goes by there. Once you miss an opportunity to see something, it's gone forever, unless another time string opens up to the same point in time.

  Of course, if you tried to go back, you'd cross your shadow and end up not seeing it-or anything else ever, ever again.

  "The point is," Kit nodded, "the more down-time trips you make, the greater the odds that when you step through a gate into some unknown time, you'll already exist somewhere and somewhen else. Eventually the odds catch up and you die."

  Margo chewed her lower lip in a thoughtful fashion. "So ...you take this gamble every time you walk through an open gate, because you never know when-to what time-it leads? Why bother to keep records at all, if you could just vanish anyway? Seems like a lot of fuss, when you could blip out before you knew what hit you, no matter what you put in this thing. I mean, you don't know when you're going, so what does it matter that you know when you've been?"